Monday, October 20, 2014

Not About Strangers

I used to count the days by the passage of ladybugs underneath the stairwell. Like beads on a rosary, they never failed to keep me calm, even when the rain started falling, turning the dusty ground into mudpits. I wasn’t always afraid of the rain you know, it just became something that reminded me of you and the way your blood spilled onto the kitchen floor after the knife slipped. Without flinching, you bent down to clean up the mess (I still haven’t forgiven you for ruining my favorite tea towel). The plink of water dripping from the sink, like little April showers, would haunt me for days afterwards. That was years ago though, before I made the mistake of memorizing the slow, steady pulse on the edge of your wrist – the only place I think you could ever be vulnerable. The scar is still there and sometimes, I catch you running your fingers over its raised landscape. And sometimes, when I am sitting next to you on the bus, I wonder how you stop yourself from burning through your skin. Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.